Everybody Dies
by Gracie Holmes
Summary: "Everybody dies...How can it still come as a surprise to people?" Mycroft Holmes has lost so much in his life, leaving only ice behind. Antartica was cold and stood alone. He buried his heart years before Sherlock pointed a gun at it. Heavy themes of death and loss. Canon compliant. Mycroft-centric. TW childhood illness, loss of a parent, death themes.
1. Chapter 1

_"Everybody dies. It's the one thing human beings can be relied upon to do. How can it still come as a surprise to people?"_

* * *

Like many children, Mycroft Holmes' first experience with death was that of a grandparent. Grandad Holmes passed away from a heart attack when Mycroft was only nine. Sherlock and Eurus wouldn't remember him, they'd been far too little. But Mycroft did.

He remembered mints and treats from worn coat pockets, times of warm hugs and annoying pinches of cheeks. There had been stories of Grandad's navy experience during World War II, and loving memories of his late wife. Mycroft always had an excellent memory, but some things stood out. He'd admired and loved his grandfather, as much as any child could. The grandad he remembered had been warm and personable, so unlike the man Mycroft would become.

He had been the one to find his grandad slumped over a bench in the back gardens of Musgrave Hall. The heart attack had been immediate and sudden, with no suffering or pain. Just like that, Grandad was gone. Mycroft remembered running back to the house, feet pounding the paths and breaths coming heavily. But there wasn't much in his mind after that. He must have told someone, and there must have been people around to take care of the body.

He did remember the funeral, distant pipe organ music, a priest reading from an old leather Bible, his mother crying, their cousin taking care of Sherlock and Eurus. However, the strongest memory that Mycroft had of that day was of his father. Dressed in black, eyes distant and features drawn. He remembered studying every visible emotion, trying to understand.

Someday Mycroft knew he was going to be in the same position. It was the logical thing, wasn't it? Everyone lost their father because everybody died. Inevitable. Unsurprising.

That didn't mean it wasn't painful. And later that evening, Mycroft would wrap his little arms around his father's waist without saying a word, to be quiet comfort in the midst of grief.

It would be the first of many such experiences with death. Each different. Each painful. Until the remarkable mind of Mycroft Holmes was left standing alone.

* * *

The year Eurus turned six, the theme of the Holmes family would also be that of loss.

Victor Trevor, Sherlock's best friend, disappeared. The then fourteen-year-old Mycroft watched it all happen, unable to fix it. He watched Sherlock struggle with the loss of a friend, the anxiety and the pain that went along with it. Sherlock's experience and acceptance of humanity's morality were decidedly different than his own.

The week of the disappearance had been impossible.

'Drowned Redbeard' was not the last of it. The water had come before the fire. Eurus was a destructive force of nature and she knew exactly what to do to lay waste to everything she touched, even as a child.

Mycroft should have known then that nothing lasted forever, he'd already experienced that with Granddad's death. Everybody died. The fire always came in and destroyed everything.

Every photo, sentimental object, article of clothing, tea set, all their books, it all burned. The fire brought to a halt the ever growing history of generations living in that home. Not only did they take the littlest Holmes away to be locked up, but the entire family had to start over. Their lives had been broken the moment Eurus decided to kill another child.

It was morning when Mycroft watched as the tall men led her away, standing where he was in the window of their temporary home. She looked over her shoulder, just before she got into the vehicle. The wind caught her loose dark hair in a dramatic flare. Cold emotionless eyes fixed on him, there was a deadly warning in them, one he didn't yet understand.

Nevertheless, Mycroft felt a chill run up his spine. Ice settled into his very bones.

* * *

Life moved on.

Mycroft had been seventeen when he'd met Naomi Grace Carter on the grounds of Oxford university. A fellow student, a few months older than he. She was exquisite, with her wavy auburn hair, soft pink lips, and bright blue eyes, not to mention a fierce intelligence and disposition that spoke of refinement and leadership qualities. She'd been born and raised in America, moving to London to be with grandparents once her mother died.

They'd met on the steps of the library in the middle of a rainstorm. He had an umbrella, she did not. In the three years since Eurus' imprisonment, Mycroft had lost his baby weight, gained substantial height, and taken it upon himself to take full responsibility for his brother's wellbeing. The stress grew every year. Naomi had been a breath of fresh air.

He'd been enchanted from his first conversation with her. She was his match in so many ways. Clever, organized, determined, ambitious, coy, beautiful, and much better at personal interaction than he was. Not to mention she gave back as much snark as he did. He fell for her hard and fast.

It was with her that he ventured into things he'd only briefly considered. Physical affection was new and exciting, and a welcome break from the anxiety in his life.

They'd been so young when Naomi got pregnant. She was just barely nineteen, he still eighteen, both taking university classes and anticipating a future of importance in their chosen fields.

With that news, their entire world turned upside down.

Naomi had an entire career waiting for her, years of study and work for a bright mind. They were too young, not ready, even if it wasn't a question of finances. However, she had every desire to keep the baby they'd made together. It wasn't planned, but it was serendipity. An unexpected blessing. She was determined to make a life and live it to the fullest. Plans could be shifted around. They could have it all.

They married in a small ceremony on a blustery autumn evening, then took a very short holiday to the coast.

Zariah Hope Celestia Holmes was born in the spring, a little early and in the wee hours of the morning. Mycroft was completely sure she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. He was also sure he would ruin her, but Naomi promised they'd always be together and she'd make sure they didn't ruin their beautiful creation. Mycroft had learned Naomi was usually right in these instances. He leaned on her support.

Unfortunately, this was one of those rare times where Naomi had been wrong.


	2. Chapter 2

**_A/N: Thank you so much for your interest in this story! If you could drop a review, I would be forever grateful! -G_**

* * *

 _Ring! Ring! Ring!_

Mycroft would remember that ringing phone the rest of his life, the sound of it echoed through the kitchen. Zariah had plucked it up it before he could get there. Since Naomi was out to a late dinner with her friends, it was just the two of them. Mycroft would not often find himself using the word 'adorable', but it fit his beautiful six-year-old. She had her mother's dimples, bright blue eyes, and infectious smile. Unfortunately (in his mind), she'd inherited a larger than normal nose from him, as well as the Holmes curly dark-brown hair. She was bright and clever and already spoke three languages.

The girl was on an independent streak where she insisted she was an adult and needed to do adult things. Which included answering the phone whenever she could. Mycroft stood patiently to wait for her.

"Hello? Holmes residence….yes…he's right here. Just a moment, sir." Zariah turned towards her father. "Daddy? It's for you," she said in her most professional voice, going on to deduce. "Older man, professional. He sounded very serious."

"Thank you, love." Mycroft smiled when she handed the phone up to him. It'd be his last true smile in a very long time.

* * *

Mycroft's knuckles gripped the steering wheel as he took a turn too fast into one of the nearby car parks of the University College London Hospital. He slammed on the breaks and tugged Zariah out of the car, propping her on his hip with her arms around his neck to run for the A&E. Zariah was still small enough still that he could carry her without being a bother.

Distantly, Mycroft knew Zariah was scared. Terror had gripped his own chest, making it difficult to breathe. She had to have an understanding of what was happening. As soon as he'd hung up the phone, they'd rushed into the car in a panicked flurry.

Naomi had been hit in a head-on collision that had pushed the car into a divider and oncoming traffic. There were no grievous details over the phone, only that he was needed immediately. Time was of the essence.

She'd been moved to the Intensive Care Unit by the time he made it into hospital, but the staff helped him get to where he was needed. It felt like an eternal walk down the hallways with their nurse escort. Finally, they were there.

The body in the bed didn't even look like Naomi. Deep red and purple bruises stood out against ashen white skin. Zariah turned her face into the crook of his neck and whimpered softly. Mycroft didn't know what to do, his voice couldn't push past the lump in his throat.

He drifted towards the bed like a ghost until he stood right near Naomi's head. Her eyes, bruised and black around the sockets, were closed. A tube between her lips kept her breathing. There were monitors and intravenous lines. And the steady beat of her heart monitor sounded over the other machines keeping the love of Mycroft's life alive.

"Mr Holmes?" A nurse's voice pulled him from the nothingness that was his thoughts. "We need to…go over her condition with you."

"Just a moment, please." Mycroft glanced down at Zariah, so still and sniffly in his arms. He shifted her. "Zariah? I need to go talk to the nurses, can you stay here with Mummy?"

The girl's voice was naught but a whisper. "She'll wake up, right Daddy?"

Mycroft's chest pinched painfully again. Hollow where his heart should have been. "I hope so," he said softly, setting her down on the edge of the bed. "You just hold her hand and be very careful. I'll be right back."

Mycroft closed the curtain just a bit and joined the two nurses and doctor that had called him over. The doctor was clean-shaven, middle-aged, dressed in scrubs, with serious dark brown eyes. The nurses were both women, one young and short, the other closer to retirement. Both wore variations of sympathy in their expressions.

The doctor introduced himself as Dr Patel, and the nurses as Claire and Tammy, but the pleasantries were over very quickly.

"I will not hold back, Mr Holmes. There is a very small chance she will make it through the night. On top of internal bleeding, there was penetrative damage to her skull and bleeding in the brain we can't stop. Any chance of-"

Mycroft didn't hear much else after that. He stood like a statue in the nurse's station, being told the woman who was his heart was going to be taken away from him. Forever. Zariah would lose her mother. They'd be alone.

The medical staff talked about what they'd done thus far, and the timeframe until brain death. He took it in distantly like there was a muffler over his ears. He didn't need the details. Details wouldn't change facts.

Ignoring anything else they needed to say, Mycroft just turned away from them to head back to the room where his wife and daughter were. Everything was numb, too cold. Like any warmth had been stolen out of him. His sunshine was dying there in the bed, after all.

"I tried talking to her. She's not waking up," Zariah said quietly once Mycroft closed the curtain around them and sat in a worn chair next to the bed on her opposite side. The slim girl had curled up next to Naomi's still body, her head on Naomi's shoulder and her little arm wrapped around her over the sheet.

Mycroft leaned over, pressing a soft kiss to Naomi's bruised temple, right under the bandage that wrapped around her head. His vision got blurry very quickly. There were no words for this, explaining to Zariah that Naomi was going to die. How on earth was he supposed to tell this burst of starlight that her mother was never going to hold her again, never going to smile or speak or hug her?

Running fingers delicately over Naomi's cheekbone, he spoke very softly. "Zariah, darling…the doctor told me your mother…her injuries were…" he choked on the words. "She's not going to wake up."

Zariah didn't reply, not at first. Her young mind had to have been processing what that meant. She peeked up at him with big watery blue eyes. "Mummy's going to die."

Mycroft's heart had broken and he couldn't keep it together. It was an impossible task. "Yes," he whispered. "Her brain sustained…considerable damage."

Zariah didn't reply, and Mycroft was grateful because he had no more words. Only pain. A raw unfathomable agony that dug its icy fingers into his mind.

He'd planned a whole life with Naomi. Not on any more children, but between work and Zariah and Sherlock, they would have had their hands full. He and Naomi were going to retire together eventually, live out the end of their days hand-in-hand. Reading together, laughing together, long discussions, cuddling up after a long walk in silence…all that vanished. Never to be.

Naomi lasted into the early morning, about sunrise if there'd been a window instead of white hospital walls. There were no lifesaving measures taken because the machines keeping her alive could continue to do so after brain-death.

Mycroft held her hand until the monitor stopped. Until the silence filled the room. Until his beautiful angel was gone for real. He fell apart. He couldn't be a father or a government official, not when he was a broken man.

Zariah refused to let go even then. Having spent the night dozing and quietly speaking to Naomi's still form, the girl would not be pulled away. She'd started crying and did not stop, burying her face into Naomi's chest and clinging to her limp body. Together, without words, they grieved.

The days would pass in a haze. Funeral arrangements were made, relatives contacted, paperwork compiled, offices cleaned. Mycroft spent most of the time sitting, staring at the window, or the fire, or the wall, wherever he was. Zariah had essentially locked herself in her room, barely coming out to eat, and not speaking at all.

It was a rainy Saturday when they lowered Naomi's dark grey casket into the ground. Mycroft had his arm wrapped around their little girl, holding them together under his black umbrella. A priest spoke, reading words that echoed the passages Mycroft had heard not even two decades earlier at Grandad's funeral. Mycroft couldn't concentrate on it. A drunk-driver had stolen the most precious and worthy part of his life. No government negotiations or deals could reverse that, no wars or debates with the Prime Minister would bring Naomi back.

As he lay a single red rose on the top of Naomi's casket, Mycroft Holmes felt so cold. It had nothing to do with the weather. At the tender age of twenty-five years old, he was a widower and a single father. Lost, even if he was not quite alone. Not yet at least.


	3. Chapter 3

"You, my darling, look absolutely ravishing."

"You think so?" Naomi Holmes did a slow turn in her sensual black evening gown, letting the silky fabric flow around her legs like liquid. Her auburn hair had been pinned up in an elegant knot supporting a red rose. The flower matched her lipstick, and black heels brought her eye-to-eye with her husband. She also sported her signature subtly cheeky smile, despite her question.

Mycroft stood close, though he wanted to be closer, clad in black-tie. The two were headed out for an evening of wine tasting and dancing to celebrate their fifth anniversary. He caught himself staring again and met her eyes instead. "I do. It's the single thought at the forefront of my mine, unfortunately."

Naomi laughed lightly, he'd always loved her laugh, and closed the distance. "Not unfortunate at all, the idea was to get us away from work."

He wrapped an arm expertly around her waist, bringing her flush against his chest. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed their foreheads together.

"I might have something else on my mind too," he said, his voice pitched low.

"You are definitely not the only one, but we have reservations. Once we get home again…you're all mine."

"You can have me however and whenever you like."

Naomi laughed again, tipping her head to steal a kiss. The two people, always very much in love, swayed in place with each other in the minutes they waited for Zariah's nanny to arrive. Unfortunately, their little moment was prematurely interrupted.

"Mummy?" The soft voice came from the doorway. Their four-year-old stood, clad in the pajamas they'd dressed her in an hour previous. Her arms were crossed in front of her and she hunched over herself.

Naomi loosed herself from Mycroft and moved quickly towards the girl. "Darling, what's wrong? You're supposed to be sleeping."

"I threw up," Zariah whimpered with a sniff. "I don't feel good. My tummy hurts."

Naomi crouched next to her, cupping Zariah's head in her hands and giving her a thorough once over. "She has a bit of a fever, I think. Perhaps the flu…"

"Ms Nelson will be here soon, she can—"

"No," Naomi said, glancing up at Mycroft. "I doubt I could enjoy myself anyways, knowing Zariah's home sick. We can postpone the date."

Zariah sniffed, close to crying. "I don't want Ms Nelson, I want you to stay."

Mycroft moved over and crouched too, his features softening. "Don't worry, little one. We won't be leaving."

Fifteen minutes later, the three of them were settled in the living room, a tea tray on the table and soft vinyl music coming from the record player. Mycroft and Naomi had left the dress clothes behind in favor of pajamas and dressing gowns. After taking a spoonful of medicine, Zariah curled up on the couch, wrapped in a big blanket. She was running a low-grade fever.

They cared for Zariah, reading a book together until the girl had drifted off to sleep again. Her features relaxed completely, temporarily free of the uncomfortable pain that sickness brought. Mycroft cupped her head after he'd closed the book and dropped a kiss to her warm forehead. "Sleep well, love."

"I'll make an appointment if she doesn't end up feeling better by tomorrow," Naomi said quietly after a stretch of blissful silence. She set her teacup to the side and smiled softly at him.

"We'll monitor. She's in the best hands. Yours, as a matter of fact."

"Yours too, darling, you did very well."

Mycroft stood up from the ground and offered his hand to help her up too, bringing her close in the dance they didn't get to have that night. They didn't speak much after that. They just held each other close and watched over their little girl. They'd promised, after all. _In sickness and in health._

In the dim light from the fireplace, Naomi's blue eyes sparkled with life.

The memory faded with the sensation of soft lips and gentle hands. Mycroft woke from the dream slowly and with painful awareness that he was alone in his bed. Naomi was dead, nothing but a memory.

* * *

The months following Naomi's sudden loss, Mycroft had thrown himself into his work. Between his newly acquired responsibilities with Sherriford and his MI-6 influences, it wasn't difficult to be away. So much so that he was spending almost all of his time in the office or on trips, leaving Zariah in the care of their nanny or housekeeper. He was letting her down. He knew that. But he just hurt too much, the ache in his empty soul was overwhelming. Separating himself from his emotion helped. Work was the best antidote for sorrow, and he could almost forget about his humanity when he was busy being the government's conduit.

Naomi's influence permeated the house even still. From her few paintings to her books in the library, to the lingering scent of her perfume. She was everywhere, she always had been. She'd been a major influence on his life from the moment they met. Mycroft's broken heart would throb at the mere thought of her.

If he let it.

He tried to close himself off to hold himself from falling apart. Keep distance, remain in silence, portray impassive facade, be a professional. He could play the part and ignore pitying stares. He hated them.

When he did come home late, he'd sneak into Zariah's room. There he felt what he truly was, a guilty man, an absent father, a widower left with a beautiful girl who needed more. She needed someone better than he. Someone who wouldn't look into her bright blue eyes and see echoes of Naomi's ghost. He'd sit down at the edge of her bed and smooth back the hair from her face. He would lean in and press a kiss to her forehead and tell her he loved her despite it all. He apologized for everything. He just needed time.

Unfortunately, it was time he took for granted. It was a mistake that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Maybe if Naomi had still been alive, they wouldn't have missed the signs. Mycroft did, Zariah's guardians did too since she was bounced around from person to person. If they'd been an intact family with observational skills at full capacity, maybe they could have caught it earlier.

The circumstances were such that the initial symptoms had been difficult to identify. In the months following Naomi's death, Zariah had lost weight. Consistent decreased appetite, depressed mood, lack of energy — not unusual for a child who just lost her mother. Excessive bruising and bloody noses, however, were not.

A high fever and severe pain sent Zariah to the A&E not a month after her seventh birthday. Mycroft had been called in from work and he'd rushed to be with his daughter with no hesitation. He found her in a hospital bed and the worst memories clouded his mind. Pushing through them, he stayed with her. He could do that much for the last piece of Naomi he had left, their precious creation. He had to do better.

Initial tests led to more tests, blood work and scans, and physical assessments. A bone marrow biopsy was the final say. All to confirm the doctors' suspicions. The stress in the hours and days of waiting compounded exponentially, until the weight of it was more than Mycroft could bear and he could feel his heart pounding in his chest with every waking moment. He kept a strong front for Zariah's sake.

The diagnosis came eventually, with a sick relief. They were three words that would change their lives forever.

 _Acute Myeloid Leukemia._


	4. Chapter 4

"You need to talk to her. She needs you."

"I can't…I don't know what to say."

The ghost in his finely tuned information stuffed mind drifted closer still, her white gown shimmering in the non-existent light. She lay her hand on his arm. It was inexplicably warm. "Mycroft, my love, your daughter is ill. She needs her father."

Mycroft locked his eyes on hers, knowing if he reached too far for the memory she'd vanish like smoke. "I don't know how. You were always better at this. I need you. She needs you."

A crystal tear trickled down her pale cheek, white as death. "She doesn't have me, she can't. I'm dead, my love. All you have is each other…"

Mycroft exhaled slowly and the ghost faded. He found himself at home, sitting on the bed he now slept in alone. He'd caved to the temptation of her memory when he'd been working to pack a bag for Zariah's stay in hospital. The faint spritz of Naomi's perfume could bring her voice to his ears and her touch to his arm. Minds were curious things.

Every time he thought about her was _pain_. Every time reminded him that she was gone and he was facing their worst nightmare _alone._

He carried his pain quietly, deep inside himself. Away from distant murmurings and empty rooms, locked in the coldest reaches of his heart where he could try to forget them. It was the only way to function anymore.

* * *

"Zariah?" Mycroft slipped into the room where she had been admitted to the paediatric cancer ward. His packed bag, he dropped on a chair. His umbrella and coat, he hung up by the door. He closed the distance to Zariah's bed, fidgeting ever slightly. "Sorry, that took so long...traffic."

Looking very small in the big white bed, the girl lay there with a book on her lap, unopened. One of Naomi's old favorites from the C.S. Lewis _Chronicles of Narnia_ series. Treatment had begun early this morning with Zariah's first round of chemotherapy. They'd done more blood tests and determined she was fairly anaemic and needed a transfusion on top of everything. Mycroft had agreed to the treatment himself. Still, it all seemed a bit surreal.

"This is a blood transfusion," Zariah explained quietly without a greeting. Her eyes followed him as he settled into his chair. "They take somebody else's blood and put it in me to make me feel stronger and raise my haemoglobin levels. I asked Nurse Stevens about it."

Mycroft swept his eyes over the intravenous lines connected to her, as well as the little bag near the edge that was supposed to be if she was ill again. "I'm sure Nurse Stevens knows quite a bit about it all."

"She does, she said I could ask her questions about any of it." She turned on the bed, careful of the IV line. Her blue eyes were big and sad - Mycroft could hardly keep eye contact. "I'm going to lose my hair soon. Two or three weeks, she said so. They might need to shave it off when it starts falling out."

Mycroft leaned forward in his seat, tucking a strand of her beautiful long dark hair back behind her ear. "Yes, but after you're done with treatment it all grows back. Good as new."

Zariah almost smiled, fiddling with the hem of her hospital gown. "It does, doesn't it. It'll be short like yours for a while then, Daddy?"

He cupped her head with his hand. "Exactly. And you will still look beautiful as ever, no matter how much hair you have."

She was so pale there was no blush save for the tips of her ears. "People might get us mixed up if we have the same hair."

"Maybe." Mycroft huffed in something close to amusement. But it was also pride. Of her perseverance, bravery, and childlike innocence. Zariah's survival rate was about forty percent at this point, based on where the leukemia had spread to already, and how much of her bone marrow it had taken over.

He leaned up out of his chair and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. He closed eyes in a silent prayer to a God Naomi had believed in but he could not. Zariah was too young. Too full of life to be left with this struggle and uncertainty of a future.

"I love you, Zariah. Never forget that, okay?"

Zariah's eyes had closed again as if she'd suddenly gotten tired. Understandably. It had been a long first day. She relaxed into the bed and curled around his hand and arm, rather than the teddy bear sitting opposite. "I know. I love you too, Daddy."

* * *

At first, Zariah responded well to the treatments. Her blood counts were edging back into normal ranges. Her body, while damaged considerably by the chemotherapy itself, had seen reduced signs of leukemia. Good things.

The cancer went into remission after a month and a half. Mycroft took his daughter home. There was a beanie over her bald head and a pallor to her skin, but a smile on her face as they walked hand in hand into familiar and welcome settings.

They'd go through this cycle several times over the course of the coming months, with a bone marrow transplant around Christmas. Treatment would be at the hospital, where Zariah would get the best care. Then when she was healthy enough they could have time at home away from the needles and drugs.

Instead of school, playing outside, and horseback riding lessons like a normal seven-year-old would have, she was taking chemotherapy and receiving numerous blood transfusions, among other such treatments.

She would read in her hospital bed to keep occupied through treatment. Somedays she just struggled to stay awake through a single chapter. Those days Mycroft would take the book and gently to read it to her. They'd listen to music together from a little radio-tape player. He'd bought for their hospital stays. From Bon Jovi to Bach to Enya, she loved it all.

Sherlock would come to visit quite frequently. He would rarely admit it, but he was very good with Zariah, and they could talk for hours. He'd tell her stories about his university, and the deductions he got from his classmates and professors. She would insist people were stupid for hating him. She loved him very much, after all. Sometimes he'd crawl his skinny frame into bed with her and hold her until she went to sleep. Mycroft found them both sleeping like that once, the daylight from the window hitting Sherlock's face and casting Zariah's into shadow. Their chests rose and fell in synchronized breathing, calm, serene. For two people that had lost so much already at such a young age, they looked at peace in sleep. Like nothing could harm them again.

Foolish sentiment. It wouldn't save her.

Mycroft's parents would stay with Zariah when he could not. When he had to work and the call of the British Government pulled him away. He was so grateful and didn't know how to express it, even if it wasn't for him specifically. Zariah needed support. She needed love and family, to be reminded she was not alone through this dark journey.

This was their life now. Mycroft adapted quickly because he had to. He became the foundation on his own. Naomi was not there to lean against, and so many counted on him, especially their little girl.

But for all he was worth, he never felt so _helpless._ As Zariah's numbers went wrong, when she got another infection, when she coughed so much she could not sleep, when she shook with nausea and he held her as she was sick into the toilet, he could do nothing to ease her way.

Mycroft should have expected it eventually, but he'd been harboring a _hope_ that she'd pull through. She had to. She was too young and he'd lost so much already. But Zariah's treatments weren't as successful, she spent longer and longer in the hospital. All the signs were there, he didn't need to be a doctor to know things weren't going as well as they had been in the beginning.

Their paediatric oncologist, who'd been there since day one and headed their team of doctors, took him into a private room to discuss Zariah's condition. It echoed a day not so long ago, when he stood in another hospital in London, just away from a room that held his dying wife. He heard but didn't process while the doctor spoke. He couldn't fully come to grips with it. Not yet.

He drifted back to Zariah's room afterward, more a shadow than a man. She was asleep still. Her face was turned towards the door and her arm was wrapped around the old teddy bear he and Naomi had given her years ago. He closed the door behind them and found his usual chair. He dropped into it like a stone in a river. Heavy, laden with a weight he couldn't carry in the rush current of life.

The doctor's words echoed in his head, phrases and sentences overlapping one another until there was nothing but white noise.

" _Exhausted treatment….advanced cancer…AML…the neutrophils…she'd not responding to the treatment anymore…her brain stem…there's nothing more we can do…chemo...more harm than good...I'm sorry, Mr Holmes…consult family…I wish I could…hospice…counselor…do you…I'm sorry…not much time left…sorry…sorry…sorry…_


	5. Chapter 5

_Thank you again for your reviews! I always appreciate the feedback! I would also like to apologize for this chapter. It hurt me to write. -G_

* * *

"What is it?"

"Sherlock Holmes, your new niece is not an 'it'," Naomi Holmes scolded good-naturally. "She is a baby. Her name is Zariah, and you may use it as such."

The new little family was just home after the short hospital stay following Zariah's birth. The neonate slept quite contently in her mother's arms. Mycroft had his arm around Naomi where they were sitting on the couch, and a curious young Sherlock poked his nose up from behind a book.

Mr and Mrs Holmes were tutting around the house, prepping dinner and tea and cleaning up the mess that had been left when Naomi had gone into labor a few days earlier.

Naomi herself was a glowing young mother, absolutely in love with the little girl she'd spent hours of pain and months of discomfort bringing into the world. Mycroft, on the other hand, was silent and protective. Also slightly apprehensive and absolutely terrified he'd ruin or break her. There was also an irrational fear this little girl would turn out like Eurus, psychopathic and detached. All he could do is wait to get to know her.

"Zariah," Sherlock repeated the name in its three syllables. "Comes from variations on the names in Russian for 'sunrise', Arabic for 'flower', or Hebrew for 'God has helped'."

"Very good, Sherlock," Mycroft complimented. "Naomi's choice, but I had input, of course."

"I read the books in your study while you were out of town. You bookmarked that page."

"Stealing our parents' key to my house again, how predictable," Mycroft drawled. "And I did notice they were out of order-"

"Hush," Naomi interrupted with a little apologetic smile for Mycroft. Her eyes turned back to Sherlock. "Do you want to hold her, Sherlock?"

If Sherlock had looked impassive and unimpressed a moment ago, it all melted away into surprise and absolute terror. "Um…she's…I mean, I can't."

Mycroft paused a moment, trying to decipher where Sherlock's fear was coming from. "She is not an east wind…Sherlock," he said. Neither one of them had been exposed to a baby since Eurus, and even then Sherlock had been so little himself. He almost worried Zariah, with her wisps of dark hair and her genetically probable blue eyes, would stir Sherlock's memory.

The death of a child was utterly tragic, Mycroft had witnessed it from Sherlock's point of view primarily. He didn't want that pain to resurface.

Naomi gestured with one hand to the chair closest to them. "It won't be long. Just sit right here, I'll put her in your arms, all you have to do is stay completely still. You know how to do that?"

Sherlock glanced at Mycroft, even as he moved from his corner. "I'm not a child," he insisted. "I know how to sit still when I want to."

Once Sherlock made it to the chair and sat as instructed, Naomi placed the baby in his arms. She was so tiny and pink, a little white beanie pulled over her nearly bald head. Sherlock didn't say anything, he just stared down at her. There was something close to fascination in his eyes. Or maybe it was apprehension, time would tell.

Mycroft pulled Naomi back to him once she'd passed the baby off, cuddling her a little bit closer now that she didn't have something so fragile in her arms. His voice low and quiet in her ear. "I love you, you know that."

"I know," she answered, tipping her head back to rest on his shoulder and breath him in. "And our little girl is going to love you too. You're not going to ruin her."

"The probability, considering-"

"No, you won't," she insisted, tipping her head to press a kiss to his cheek. "I'm going to be here. We are a team and we'll do this together. I'll make sure. Trust me."

Mycroft smiled softly, glancing over at his little brother holding their new little one. "I do. Always."

* * *

Zariah's end days were spent in the comfort of her own home. They had a round the clock hospice nurse and every comfort provided for her, to take away lingering pain and ease those final days to the best of their ability. There were only three others allowed in the house. Mycroft's parents were staying full time to help, and Sherlock was coming and going when he could. Zariah's friends from school had come to visit when she was in hospital. She didn't want them to see her at the end. It wasn't fair.

Zariah slept most of the time. Mycroft had taken over the couch in her room to sleep, unable to leave her even overnight. Because very soon he was going to lose her, one morning he was going to wake up and she was going to be gone. He had taken a leave of absence from work and the matters of the government didn't even cross his mind in these weeks.

Mycroft's mother took pictures whenever she could, disappearing away when she couldn't handle her tears any longer. Most of the time it was just Mycroft and Zariah. Together they passed the time, waiting out the inevitable.

One such day, he came into their room to find her awake on the bed. She was having a good day, no intense pain nor great fatigue or so much as a little cough. Her teddy bear was tucked on one side and she'd pulled out the photo albums his mother had found for her. Her baby book was featured primarily, but there were pictures from before she was born, as well as her early years. Naomi had always liked them.

Zariah was eight now, and wouldn't live to see nine years old. Mycroft decided now was a good a time as any to be nostalgic. There was only so much time left, after all.

While he watched her, he fidgeted with his wedding ring, still where it was meant to be on his left hand. He had Naomi's ring tucked away in a velvet box in the safe, meant to be given to Zariah when she came of age. He supposed it'd remain in the box forever now.

Zariah peeked up at him with big blue eyes. The shadows underneath them didn't diminish their innate curiosity. "Can you sit by me?"

"Since you asked so nicely," he agreed with a bit of a smile.

She spoke again once he'd settled in at her side, under the fuzzy pink blanket. "Uncle Sherlock sure looked funny."

"He definitely did," Mycroft agreed humorously, wrapping his arm around her and turning his attention to the book. "Still does."

Zariah's giggle, while barely perceptible, was still a giggle. She quieted and snuggled up a bit closer as she turned the page. One of the photographs his mother had snapped was of Naomi holding baby Zariah near the window. The sun was shining through and it had set her auburn hair aflame in a beautiful warm red, making her skin glow in gold strokes like that of a painting. Zariah's little fingers strayed over the photograph. "Mummy was beautiful."

"She definitely was," Mycroft said quietly. The time and distance had allowed him the ability to talk about her, but it would always hurt. Especially when he was open and raw with Zariah. "You are beautiful too," he added. "Inside and out. She was always so proud of you."

A pause. "When I die…am I going to be with Mummy in heaven?"

He took a deep shuddering breath in. "She thought so," he said, unwilling to steal her hope in her last weeks. Even if it was false, in his mind. He couldn't do that to her. He put his hand over hers on the photograph. "She is going to wrap you up in her arms and hold you, just like she always did."

Zariah relaxed against him. "That sounds wonderful." A long pause again. "I'm going to miss you, Daddy. I'm sorry I didn't beat leukemia."

Mycroft held her a bit tighter if that were possible. "It's not your fault, never your fault," he said quietly, trying so hard to keep his voice from breaking.

"I'm not afraid," she whispered into the fabric of his shirt. "I'm not afraid of dying…I'm just sad about how much I'm…going to miss. And I don't want to leave you…behind."

Mycroft really didn't have any words. For himself or for her. He, a man of unfathomable intellect and prestigious position, had nothing to say. He turned his face into her white beanie covered head. His body shook around her with suppressed sobs. "I'm going to miss you too, my little sunrise. You…have no idea how much I love you."

Zariah cried too, tears rolling down her too pale cheeks. "I love you too…don't forget it."

"I won't. I promise."

* * *

The days rolled by too quickly. Mycroft would read to her every day and evening before bed. He'd push her in the wheelchair around the house. Their nurse, a kindly greying woman named Elizabeth, had her own routine and saw to as many needs as she could. She bathed Zariah and kept her as comfortable as possible.

But Mycroft knew the end was coming sooner rather than later. There were less good days. Zariah would sleep more, say and eat less. Not to mention the less pleasant symptoms involved in the dying process.

Mycroft hadn't gone back to his room in months now. Naomi's ghost wouldn't come out now, at least not to him.

* * *

"Daddy?"

Her voice was so quiet, but it stirred Mycroft from his light sleep. She'd been running a fever for the last few days and it had weakened her immensely, this wasn't the first time she'd needed him. He fumbled for his watch to check the time but left it on the nightstand.

"I'm here, love. What do you need?"

"Mmm, I... want to go outside."

Mycroft paused, hovering in the space between their beds. "Darling…it's too early yet."

Zariah's bright blue eyes caught the light from the small lamp in the corner. "Mummy said the sun was going to rise soon. I…I want to see it."

Mycroft approached, cupping her head with his hands. She was still warm with fever, and the pallor of her skin indicated she'd need another transfusion today. He had absolutely no idea what to say to her request either. Was she hallucinating? Naomi wasn't here. "You had a dream."

Zariah weakly put her tiny hand over his, sniffing a bit. "Daddy, I want to go outside. _Please_ , I nn-need…to."

Mycroft thought about waking the nurse. That would be the proper thing to do. His little girl, who'd been through so much in the last year and a half, was asking him for one thing. One last thing, it seemed. He bent down and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Okay, we'll go out into the gardens on the patio for a bit before tea. The roses are blooming, you know."

"Okay…" Zariah just breathed out the word. She turned her head, fixing her eyes on something that wasn't there on the other side of the room.

A chill ran up his spine. He did his best to ignore it and prepare his terminally ill daughter for a visit to the pre-dawn morning air. After all this time, he was more than familiar with the medical equipment used in her treatment, and it took no time at all to detach her from the monitors. He wrapped her up in her giant soft pink blanket and scooped her up in his arms. She was light as a sack of feathers.

He peeked down at her in the dim light of the coming dawn and the small lamp just outside the back door. Her eyes cracked open and her features were peaceful. Maybe a bit of fresh air would do them both good.

Surprisingly it wasn't too cold. Mycroft settled down on the little bench nearest the rose bushes. Naomi had always enjoyed the gardens. Since her death, he'd kept them up with a gardener, especially for Zariah's sake. He propped her up in his lap, her head on his shoulder and her rail-thin body cradled in his arms.

"We're here, Zariah," he said quietly. "I think we'll have a good view of the sunrise from this bench. Remember when we watched it on your birthday?"

"I was five, I couldn't sleep I was so excited. Mummy made us hot chocolate…" she murmured.

He barely smiled at the memory, of days long passed. He was twenty-seven years old and it felt like he had lived several lifetimes already. He turned his head and placed a kiss to her temple. "I miss her too."

"She says she loves and misses you. She...says I'm going…I'm going to be with her soon."

Mycroft took note that her every breath sounded a struggle. He turned away from the colors in the sky to look at his little girl. "Did you see Mummy?" He asked hesitantly, afraid of the answer.

Zariah's words came so softly, distantly. The warm yellow and soft pink of the sunrise touched her face, caressing her weary features in beautiful light. "She's beautiful…like an angel. Dressed in white, silver crown. She's…going to bring me… _home_."

"Baby..." Mycroft closed his eyes and pressed his lips to her forehead again, lingering there. Like he could anchor her to this life with himself. What he would give to even give her another day, week, year. He'd already pleaded with Naomi's God to just trade places with her, he'd been doing that months ago. It was too late for bargaining with a myth. There was only acceptance.

Zariah's body relaxed in his arms, her eyes closing too. Her little hand weakly reached up for his cheek. "I'm...tired."

"I love you, Zariah," he said again. He didn't know what else to say. "I'll love you both until the day I die."

"We'll be waiting for you, Daddy…"

Zariah Hope Celestia Holmes died in her father's arms, touched with warm yellows and silky pinks in the growing light of the new sunrise.


	6. Chapter 6

Rain fell, drenching the bubble of England in a constant grey wetness. Hardly new to anyone who called it home. Some might even find comfort in the familiarity of in the blanket of water, the coldness that soaked to stone and earth.

While the rain beat a quiet pattern on his black umbrella, Mycroft stood alone in a cemetery. Side by side in front of him there were two shiny headstones. One in a polished dark grey, the other in creamy white. Angels and flowers had been carved into them, along with names and dates marking periods of life far too short.

 _Beloved Wife and Mother. Beloved Daughter._

Both his girls, buried beneath the earth. Cold. Dead. Gone.

No tears blurred his vision. No longer, at least. There had been plenty before, in the hours following Zariah's passing. He remembered being unable to let her go, holding her close to his chest and letting his body just double over with uncontrollable sobs. He remembered bringing her body back into the bedroom and laying her out like she was just sleeping, running away only to find something to throw up into. For as much preparing as he had tried to do for that time, nothing had helped when he was faced with the reality. It burned down deep into his soul.

Now he was just cold, left with a broken heart, an empty house, and a future of loneliness. There was nothing more for him, he would never allow another in close. He'd seen what it had done to Sherlock as a child, he'd felt it himself in losing his wife and best friend, and the daughter they'd made together. Never again. Caring was not an advantage. Everybody died. Why suffer more than he already had?

There in front of their graves, he took the wedding ring off of his left hand, the perfect gold band clean and spotless. The inside engraving had their names in swirling letters. Naomi had insisted at the time, he had thought it was a bit silly but acquiesced nevertheless. Now he was grateful for it. He held the band in his palm to feel its weight. It was the burden he carried as the last one standing. After only a brief hesitation, he slipped the ring back on his right hand. He'd continue to wear it for the years to come. But Naomi was gone, death had parted them. There was no reason to wear it as a wedding ring. What it was now was a reminder of what he lost.

The months passed. His mother and father hovered, even if he didn't want them to. They knew what it was like to lose a daughter, or so they thought. But to Mycroft, Eurus wasn't the same. Not even close to what had happened to him. Mycroft eventually snapped. He tore them apart with cold hurtful words until their only choice was to leave him be.

What was left for him in the wave of this was his work and the Diogenes Club. He appreciated both. One allowed him to use his mind and keep busy, the other allowed him silence and distance from intrusive goldfish.

Mycroft's life moved on. He established himself in his work, took on almost more than he could handle, and made himself an even more invaluable conduit in the wheel of the British Government. Deep inside himself, behind a wall of ice, he buried his vulnerability, his raw pain, and any of his already difficult to express emotion.

Sherlock was another thing entirely. Mycroft could not very well just stop caring about him, even if he was a loose cannon. After Zariah's death, Sherlock had cut off communication. He'd shown up at the funeral, only to disappear before anyone could talk to him. Mycroft had contemplated having him summoned. It wasn't strictly necessary yet.

Mycroft was busy in his office at the Diogenes Club one evening, working late as usual. He needed a smoke break, however. It was a vice he'd picked up more recently to fill the void. Naomi wouldn't have approved. Points for him.

He was just standing up to do so when _the call_ came.

A contact had traced Sherlock to a doss house near his university. Mycroft left right away. Anxious and stressed the entire drive, fearful about what he would find. He dug through the filth and the stench to find his little brother curled up on a dirty mattress, surrounded by old candles and worthless junkies. Sherlock Holmes had no place there, Mycroft couldn't stand it. Clutching a list scrawled on stained paper, he picked his brother up and carried him out of his personal hell.

Seconds, minutes, hours later found them at another Accident & Emergency Department. Mycroft loathed hospitals at this point, the very air threatened to suffocate him. He despised that his brother was here in one, that his brother had put himself here. And he _hated_ he hadn't seen this coming. He knew his brother, and if this was the first time Sherlock had been found, this was most definitely not the first time he'd used the drugs on the list. It spoke of thought and need. A drug habit, substance abuse. Mycroft's promising little brother who'd been through so much already was now nothing but another junkie.

By the time the medical staff had saved Sherlock's life and admitted him to a private room, Mycroft had his assistant pick up his things so he could finish working as well as watch over Sherlock. At this point, he couldn't trust anyone else to do it.

Morning came, then afternoon, and finally Sherlock awoke.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft said, peeking over at his brother from the chair he'd claimed next to the bed. "Sherlock? Wake up."

"Hmm?" The young man shifted on the bed, turning away from the daylight streaming in the window. "Bright."

"Well that's what happens when you sleep for fourteen hours after an overdose," Mycroft retorted, sharper than he meant to. "What the _hell_ were you doing?"

"Experimenting, now shush."

Mycroft's icy exterior was gone, melted over the hours until all the was left was hot rage fueled by absolute fear and painful experiences. He stood up quickly, letting his book fall to the ground unnoticed. He gripped the side of Sherlock's bedrail and stared down at his too pale brother. "Experimenting with your _life_ , you selfish child, you can not-"

"I had it calculated-" Sherlock had turned to meet his eyes but whatever excuse he was going to use got cut off.

"Don't interrupt me! You can't waste your mind on this nonsense, do you understand?"

"What's the point? I'm still better, faster…even high. I needed…the break. You wouldn't understand, you're doing fine."

Mycroft's knuckles were blanched white. Every fear, every pain at losing the only two people who'd mattered to him other than Sherlock, he couldn't do this. His parents would pass on eventually, it was the way of life. If he lost Sherlock first, he wouldn't make it. Why couldn't Sherlock understand this? "Oh I think I do understand," he snapped back, trying to cool off again, but failing. He grabbed Sherlock's thin wrist to get his attention again. "Sherlock, I can't lose you too."

Sherlock's eyes were fiery and he scooted on the bed like he wanted to get away from his brother. "Guilting and bullying me into doing what you want is not going to work, _brother dear,_ let me go. I'm not a child anymore. I can do what I want."

Mycroft choked on his own voice, more emotion clouding his mind than he'd let in since the day he'd felt his daughter die in his arms. "Your life is not your own, keep your hands off of it."

A nurse decided to interrupt then, sheepishly, but with every intention of breaking up the fight before it escalated. Mycroft didn't bother to listen to whatever excuse she rambled off. With sharp exhale and dramatic turn, he took off out of the room.

He needed space, quiet, and maybe an ounce of understanding somewhere. The latter was impossible since his best friend's death. Quiet was just too difficult to find in a large hospital full of people. But his desperation pushed him on.

If he was being honest with himself, he wouldn't have expected to be walking into a chapel any day of the year. But at this point, it seemed the only reasonable place to suit his needs. Apparently, no one else needed prayers on that Tuesday afternoon. Only one other person sat on the wooden pew near the back, an elderly woman. Mycroft deduced she was watching over her dying husband. Devout Catholic. Grandmother of five. She'd be leaving soon. He wasn't wrong and the woman made her way towards the door almost as soon as he stepped passed her.

The clean wood, elegant stone, and colorful stained glass would have been aesthetically pleasing if he had any desire to dwell on it. Naomi would have appreciated the beauty, and he could just picture Zariah running down the middle aisle with a girlish giggle. The image didn't pull a smile from him, however. It just vanished like smoke in the wind.

He sat down heavily on the front bench, hands clasped in his lap and eyes tipped up to the displays near the front. Worship and honor to a God who didn't exist, and if he did, had just taken everything from him. He closed his eyes and breathed out slowly. But no force of air could renew him. His heart was heavy and his mind clouded.

"Oh Naomi, what am I going to do?"

Her ghost never answered his question.


	7. Chapter 7

For Mycroft Holmes, the years passed one after the other, forging him into the man he needed to become. He watched over his brother, using his position as the British Government's major omniscient presence to do so. Sherlock's drug habit got worse before it got better. There was only so much Mycroft could do. Finally and thankfully, Sherlock found his niche with the New Scotland Yard. Even if it wasn't exactly what Mycroft wanted, it was better than being overdosed in the streets. Oversight of Sherrinford was also necessary, for that is where Eurus resided. Both of his siblings were security threats to national security. Not to mention, he also needed them safe. Alive.

Coworkers, minions, and council members among the others he worked with knew him as cold, calculating, and intelligent. Secretive as he was, his past surrounding his lost family ended up buried like two coffins under the earth.

He grew accustomed to loneliness. Eventually, he didn't even notice anymore, there was too much with work and his own routine, it didn't matter. He'd always tended towards introversion anyways. His meeting, friendship, and falling in love with Naomi had come naturally but accidentally. An anomaly of probability.

He thought about her to this day. Her things were gone from his house, years ago now. Donated or sold. His mother had kept all the picture books. He had a few of Naomi's paintings and books still, and her wedding ring still tucked in his safe since he had nowhere else to put it. He had just two pictures left here. The one of Naomi holding baby Zariah, and the other the three of them the summer before the crash. Candid, joyous, capturing just the right serene peace of that moment. Though he'd never admit it to anyone, he missed her laugh, the way her arms wrapped around him, and a thousand other things about her. They'd have been married two and a half decades now. She would have had greying hair and laugh lines, wrinkles like he did, older features and years of memories. He tried not to let himself dwell, but it was a welcome escape in his darkest moments.

It was springtime after Sherlock's return from destroying Moriarty's network. John Watson and Mary Morstan were to be wed later in the summer, and plans for the occasion were well under way. Mycroft gave it only the briefest consideration. This April he had something else on his mind. This year would have been Zariah's twenty-fifth birthday. She'd been gone twice as long as she had been alive at this point, but Mycroft still remembered the day of her birth to every exact moment. His perfect memory couldn't help it. It had been the best day of his and Naomi's lives, the culmination of everything. The moment where he'd done something right, and the moment where his greatest challenge would just be beginning.

Zariah had grown up in his mind, and yet she was still that little child who'd been taken away too soon. Twenty-five years old, she would have been a young woman now, starting her own career, finding her own spouse, traveling the world. Mycroft couldn't even predict if she still would have liked him at this point, Sherlock didn't seem to. It didn't matter, that hadn't been the point. He would have given anything to give her those years. He knew Naomi would have too. After all, Naomi had been all of twenty-six when she'd died.

The day fell on a Sunday this year. He could have gone to work anyway, but decided against it. Instead, he lingered in his house by himself. No one came to visit, no one called, a few work-related emails crossed his inbox, but nothing else. He retreated to the library to read, and then to his cinema, hoping the darkness would help.

By the time evening had fallen and two films had been watched, he'd consumed more brandy than he would have normally on a bad day. Left with a nearly empty two hundred quid bottle of brandy and an ashtray of cold cigarette butts, he stayed right there in the room. He appreciated a fine wine and a smooth liquor. But he also had a habit of needing a drink when things got a bit too stressful, it just took him down a notch. Unfortunately this time it hadn't had the desired effect of making him tired enough to sleep. Or distracted enough to forget what day it was.

A noise in the hall drew his attention away from the film and he lowered his glass lazily. His eyes riveted to the partially open door. Footsteps. Familiar? Possibly. But so quiet. Hallucination? Perhaps he had more brandy than he'd thought. He leaned forward in his chair. "Hello?"

The door swung open, but instead of a ghost in shimmering white or a little smiling girl, there was someone else. Dressed in a dark Belstaff coat, Sherlock Holmes stood with a small white box in his hand and a slightly confused look on his face. "Well you're worse than I thought you'd be," he said by way of greeting. "I think you must be off of your diet. I guess that's a good thing."

Mycroft wasn't sure what to make of it and snatched up his drink again. The film now on pause, his night likely about to be ruined further, he sagged back into his chair with a long-suffering sigh.

Sherlock walked over, taking his brother in, deduction for deduction. Mycroft hadn't shaved and only wore a dress shirt loose at the collar and black trousers. Sherlock stood right in front of him, the light from the projector catching the top of his head and curly black hair. He didn't say a word. The brothers just stared at each other.

Mycroft gave in first, downing the rest of his drink. "What do you want?"

"You _texted_ me, I thought you were dying. Turns out it's much worse than that." Sherlock still held the little white box but used his free hand to gesture around the room.

"I'm fine, Sherlock," Mycroft replied impatiently. He wouldn't admit to not remembering texting Sherlock. Must have been one of the emails from earlier. "Just leave me be."

"I will, eventually, but I did come all this way. Not that it was that big a deal, didn't have a case. John and Mary had a date, which they will follow up with more sex. I wasn't interested in keeping them around."

"Oh right…the big to do." Mycroft ran a finger over the empty glass, eyeing Sherlock. "What's in the box?"

"Haven't you deduced? You're slowing, brother mine," he retorted. But despite his words, he put the little white box down on the table next to Mycroft. "This is a gesture. And not that big a deal, it was on my way."

Mycroft couldn't deduce, his eyes shifted warily. But his curiosity would get the best of him. Long fingers reached for the box and he popped the tab open.

Inside was a single cupcake. Bought at a bakery just today. Chocolate, strawberry filling, pink frosting, little white sprinkles. Zariah's favorite.

Mycroft felt his eyes water immediately and he was unable to stop it. He couldn't do this right now in front of Sherlock. So he used every ounce of icy willpower to shove it aside. Emotions could wait. At least he had the darkness of the room to conceal himself in.

He cleared his throat, letting his finger trace the edge of the little box. "Well this is…unexpected," he commented quietly.

"When have you ever been able to predict what I'm going to do?" Sherlock said lightly. There was a long pause. "I remember her, I know what today is…and your text felt very off. I consulted with Mrs Hudson. She wasn't much help, but she did give me this idea. This is what people do."

Mycroft was quiet for a long moment again. "Thank you, Sherlock. It seems… an appropriate way to acknowledge the day. Not that there's cause to celebrate the birth of someone who is alive, let alone dead."

"Perhaps not. Cigarette? I've been good, and I think you could use one," Sherlock said, changing the subject abruptly. Neither of them did very well with this sort of thing.

Mycroft closed the box, left his glass where it was, and stood from his chair. "I think…I think I'd like that."

Side by side, they stood out on the patio overlooking the gardens to the east. Sherlock blew smoke out into the breeze artfully, while Mycroft was more contemplative. The two of them didn't talk initially. Mycroft didn't ramble on about how he missed people who were coming on twenty years dead. Sherlock didn't ask any questions about how he was feeling.

They just stood together in silence with their smoke.

Sherlock finished his and dropped it on the ground, toeing it out with his shoe. "Sometimes I think about her too," he commented casually. "From what I remember and taking into account growth and development, she might have looked almost just like her mother by now. Natural genetic variation aside. Like your big nose. Poor thing."

Mycroft huffed, the alcohol in his system still giving him more freedom than he might have otherwise allowed. "Thankfully she never had the chance to feel self-conscious about it."

Sherlock didn't look at him. "I miss her," he confessed. "And I know you do too. You don't allow yourself to feel lonely because you think it makes you weak."

"It does," Mycroft said, dropping his cigarette on the ground too. "Everybody dies, Sherlock." He peeked over at him. "Just be careful, will you?"

Sherlock turned away from Mycroft, but there was something close to a smile on his face. "When have I have been careful, brother dear? Do enjoy the cupcake. Try not to drink anymore tonight, hangovers on Mondays are too plebeian for you."

Sherlock was through the door before Mycroft could get out a reply. He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets and breathed in the crisp air of the spring night. His concern for his brother would never cease until the day his heart stopped. Especially now, when Sherlock's own heart was with so many people. Just waiting to be broken. One never knew what could be coming next.


	8. Chapter 8

Mycroft Holmes stood impossibly frozen as John Watson held Mary through her final moments. Six Thatchers were smashed, the trigger had been pulled, and nothing the British Government could do would be able to stop this. What was on his face, what would be said, and what was in his head were all very different things.

All too recently, he'd told Sherlock people in Mary's line of work didn't live long enough to think about retirement. Mycroft had predicted this moment. This shouldn't have been a surprise to anyone.

Except he owed Mary Watson a debt he'd never be able to pay back. She'd saved Sherlock's life. This wasn't a random death or an incurable illness. She dove in front of a bullet to spare Sherlock from that very fate. Mycroft would have done that himself, he should have seen it coming. But Vivian Norbury had fooled them all, slipped in under his nose. It was on his shoulders too.

He would never say that out loud either.

What was done was done, and Mycroft's only option was to keep going, to pick up the pieces and continue, with expectations for Sherlock to do the same.

He should have known better.

"What's he doing? Why's he just wandering about like a fool?"

"She died, Mycroft. He's probably still in shock." Lady Smallwood did not turn her eyes from the screen, watching Sherlock wander through the streets of London. She knew what happened, every detail in the debriefing following the incident.

Mycroft remembered the shock. The emptiness. The question of where to go from there. Sherlock's method of grieving a similar loss, however, was still different than his own had been. Mycroft hadn't put himself on a path of self-destruction. He'd come to terms with the loss of his wife, then their daughter. Because while the pain was there, the facts could not be changed. Locking it away had been his only relief. He tore his eyes away from Sherlock's image to speak.

"Everybody dies. It's the one thing human beings can be relied upon to do. How can it still come as a surprise to people?"

Lady Smallwood was one of the very few people to be privy to Mycroft's lost personal life, so long ago as it was. She never mentioned it, just as he'd kept her personal life out of their conversations. She also didn't respond to his well-thought-out perspective.

Mycroft decided later it was better that way.

* * *

"Goodbye, brother mine."

Mycroft's work was done. Sherlock didn't need him anymore, he had John Watson. A chosen family, a brother in bond, not blood. Mycroft stared down the barrel of the gun, past Sherlock's white knuckled hand and at his face. The expression there burned in his mind. Guilt? Regret? Pain? Frustration? And yet, Mycroft was willing to do whatever it took for his little brother. Including sacrificing his own life.

This was how it had to be. Death would come at Sherlock's hand, through Eurus' order. Sherlock was the only person who mattered anymore, always meant to be the death of him. A calm acceptance of this fact had washed over Mycroft. A distant part of his mind, one that was young and naive, wanted to believe that once he was dead he would see his wife and daughter again. Foolish hope brought forth by emotions and weakness. But he didn't have to tell anyone.

The minutes after were a blur, Sherlock putting the gun up to his chin, counting down, Eurus' crying out in the video chat, the chill in the room. Everything happened at once. Fear had seized Mycroft's chest in that moment too, fear that he would lose yet another loved one. Even as Sherlock fell to the floor unconscious.

The fear would linger, burn, and fester in the coming hours. Locked in a glass-walled cage with a dead body and no way out, Mycroft waited for someone to find him and tell him Eurus had killed Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

 _Everybody died._

Truth. Everybody died, immortality was a fantasy for the credulous and the afraid, and impossible to obtain. It was not a surprise.

But when a human life was extinguished, it was not the dead who missed it, it was the living who had to carry on. Mycroft had lost so much already. There'd be no recovery with Sherlock's loss. In an effort to ignore the dead body of the governor and his current predicament in Eurus' cell, he curled up on the bed. Every line of his exhausted body vulnerable, concerned, and broken. His eyes closed, too heavy to keep open without tears filling them...

"You're in quite the predicament, darling."

Mycroft carefully cracked his eyes open in the white light. While he'd been anticipating an interruption of some kind, _that_ voice was not the one.

She drifted through the room, dressed in a shimmering gown of white. Her face appeared ageless and beyond exquisite, her auburn hair fell in waves over her shoulders. Mycroft's heart ached. Somewhere in his finely tuned mind, he must have pulled her out to keep him company in this hell. He'd put her ghost away decades before, unable to see her without _feeling_ everything. But desperate times, as they say.

"I'm dreaming," Mycroft concluded. "Lucid dreaming, apparently."

Naomi slipped into the bed with him. Face to face. Her blue eyes were lively. He could feel the warmth of her on his cold skin. She smiled ever so softly. "You are, you already know that, why should I bother to confirm it?"

"Point taken." He loosened one of his arms from around himself and reached for her. Fingertips caressed her cheek, or rather the figment of it in his dream. Her real body had decayed by now. His breath caught in his throat when he uttered three words. "I miss you."

Naomi's warm hand wrapped around his wrist and she turned her head to kiss his fingers. "I know you do," she whispered, catching his eye again. "I wanted to be there."

"Things would have been so very different," Mycroft said. He'd avoided thinking about it in the past, because of what was not and what would never be, but his life and his actions might have been so different if Naomi's death never happened. They probably would have caught Zariah's cancer soon enough to beat it, he would have had a partner to help him with Sherlock. Didn't matter now, or at all.

Naomi smiled since she knew where his mind had taken him. "You will survive this, my love. Sherlock will too."

"You can't be certain."

"No? Well then, call it a heavenly hope on a sunrise." Her enigma remained and it even drew a smile from him. She continued. "It's not yet your time to join us. You have work to do, a brother to care for, mistakes to remedy."

"I was prepared, I always have been. For Sherlock. He doesn't need me anymore."

"I don't think he'll ever reach a time where he doesn't need you. You are brothers, the love is there. You both need to learn to say it out loud." She smiled. "Perhaps in another couple decades."

Mycroft cupped her cheek, willing this dream to never end. "Decades. I think I can do that."

"You better." Her nose brushed his, her large blue eyes a myriad of shades this close. "You're terribly important, after all. Both to this nation and to your family."

"Small as it may be now. I'm going to have to tell my parents…they're bound to be furious."

"You did your best," she replied. "You thought you were sparing them further pain. I would have stood by you. I think though, once the dust settles, they should be grateful you and Sherlock are still alive. It could have been very different."

"Still might be."

Naomi gave him a disapproving look, one he remembered well. "I told you, Sherlock will make it out of this alive, with John. Trust me."

Mycroft exhaled slowly in an effort to calm his too-worried mind. "I do, I just can't help it."

"I know."

He paused, just letting the silence stretch. She smelled the same, she felt the same, and he missed her so much it hurt. This was his mind, his dream, his place to be vulnerable and human in the wake of such trauma. She had been his wife, best friend, and confidante all wrapped into one."I feel…cold. Everything around me is. I've forgotten your warmth. And Zariah's…I couldn't-"

Naomi tipped her head and brushed her lips against his. "You did what you had to in order to continue, I don't blame you for that. We don't. I love you forever, no matter what."

With everything laid bare, Mycroft felt his eyes water and he wrapped her up in his arms, bringing her fully against his chest. His fingers in her hair, his nose in the crook of her neck, he just held onto her and cried. He mourned the loss of their daughter and the illness that had stolen her young life. He mourned decades of marriage they didn't get to have, empty beds, single settings at the table, and lonely nights. He mourned the mistakes he made with Sherlock and Eurus, and everything their broken family had done wrong. And in the end, it might have been hours he lay there just holding Naomi. She whispered words of assurance in his ear, she carded fingers through his hair and pressed kisses to his stubbled cheek. Time passed slowly and quickly all at once, as was expected in a dream. Their legs were tangled together, their bodies wrapped up as if they were one being rather than two. In the past he had ignored the concept of soulmates, he was far more practical than that. But if it were truth, it would be them. She had been the only one he'd ever truly loved, perfectly suited as they had been for each other. There was no one else, and never would be.

"You're going to wake up soon."

Mycroft's fingers tightened in her soft hair, but he pulled back to look at her radiant face. "I don't want to," he said childishly. "I want to stay with you."

"You can't. This is a dream. Your life continues, dearest, you have things to do." Naomi smiled as she'd done only for him. "You'll see us again when your work is done. I promise."

She was, obviously, a figment of his subconscious. She couldn't make promises like that. But he decided to accept it regardless. He brushed her cheek with his fingers again, tracing the timeless lines of her face to burn it into his memory. Pictures never did her justice. His words came softly, uttered in solemn promise. "I love you, Naomi, until my dying day."

"I know," she whispered. "Live well, my love."

Mycroft woke with lingering feelings of warmth and a gentle weight in his arms. It was gone when he opened his eyes, he was alone once more. But help was not far away. Soon Mycroft would go home. Naomi had been right, of course, there was much work to do. Both in his family and in his job. Life continued on.

He wouldn't see Naomi's ghost again, at least not until the very end.


	9. Chapter 9

_Hello, readers! This is my final chapter, thank you so much for staying tuned and reviewing along the way! No apologies for feels. -G_

* * *

Mycroft Holmes was dying. He didn't particularly care for the experience as a whole. But it was the journey of every human. So few got to face it in the comfort of their own home with people who cared about them.

In the end, it didn't really matter how or what part of his body was failing. Old age had gotten to a number of his organ systems, according to his doctors there was little else to do. His health had been steadily declining the last few years anyways. The end was nigh. His was the inevitable outcome. Natural, perhaps, when one was just a couple months shy of their eighty-fifth birthday. His mind, fortunately, had remained intact.

Snow lightly fell in little flurries outside his window. It was nearing Christmas and London's weather had taken an unusual turn for the cold. Mycroft felt it deep down in his bones, thin as his frame was. His eyes focused through wire-rimmed glasses on the frosty scene in the yellow-grey light of the morning sun.

Sherlock Holmes, he himself nearing his seventy-eighth birthday, sat in a chair just a little ways away from Mycroft's bed. His dark curly hair had gone silver grey a few decades previous and the lines on his face told stories of experience in life. He peeked at Mycroft over his reading glasses and slowly closed the book he'd been reading out loud. "Shall I pause for now, brother dear?"

"Probably wise…I'm having trouble concentrating."

"Can't be due to the storyline, I picked this one out specifically for your interests," Sherlock replied. He set the book aside and eased himself out of the chair. Whilst seven years younger, age was still catching up with him too.

It was just the two of them now. Their parents had been gone for a very long time, having lived a full life together, reaching an age that Mycroft knew he wouldn't know. Eurus was gone too. She'd decided to die not too many years previous. Her body deteriorated from her life of captivity just wasn't meant to live as long as others.

Over the years, Sherlock and Mycroft's relationship gradually mended. Now that everything was out in the open, old wounds healed, sins were forgiven. They had almost forty years of this new relationship and plenty of things to do in the meantime. There were the occasional chocolate strawberry cupcake, shared cigarettes, classified conversations, and missions and cases to solve. Snark and sass were never too far away, but that was just the nature of being brothers.

Some years ago, Sherlock had retired from his consultive detective work in London and moved out to the Sussex countryside to keep bees. John Watson had done the same, continuing his retirement in writing his adventures down and working part-time at a local clinic. Rosie visited them frequently, bringing her children along to visit the old friends. Their life was full, even still, and never without its adventures.

John was also there in the home, watching over Mycroft and Sherlock as the end days drew nearer. Mycroft was grateful for both of them, and let it slip when they'd arrived. The lonely man, the Ice Man, wanted company as death approached.

Mycroft brought a frail hand up to his chest as a deep cough racked his body. Sherlock was right there with the water bottle and a worried expression. An emotional child in the early days, and now too. Mycroft sipped at the water and relaxed back into the pillows of the inclined bed. "Don't be concerned…Sherly. It was just a cough."

Sherlock set the bottle down and braced a hand on the edge of the bed. Eyes downcast. "You're dying, My. I'm allowed to be concerned."

"Everybody dies…it's my turn now. Finally, I suppose. Had a good run. Longer than I thought."

"Turns out you're not as clever as you thought you were," Sherlock deadpanned.

It brought a smile to Mycroft's lips. "I am still the clever one."

"If you want to keep believing that, who am I to stop you?"

Mycroft's eyes turned back to the dusting of snow on the window. "Very well…brother dear."

Sherlock chanced a touch, gently squeezing Mycroft's hand. "Dinner later? John's making something. Who knows if it'll be any good or not, but we could always order something."

"I'm not…hungry, I don't think."

If Sherlock's expression flashed worried, Mycroft didn't see it. Sherlock just squeezed his hand again and let him go. "Well, we'll make something anyways. Who knows."

Mycroft's smile faded slowly and he whispered a dismissal, which Sherlock took. Soon Mycroft was alone again. Alone with his thoughts. He'd been alone most of his life now, he felt comfortable there.

Gently he brought his fingers together, turning the ring that had been on his right had since the day of his daughter's funeral. She would have been in her sixties now. He could hardly imagine her. In fact, he'd stopped many decades earlier after he didn't have her mother to compare her to. She was and would always be that little girl he'd held in his arms. Now that he was older, retired, and entirely too sentimental for his own good, he'd allowed himself moments of nostalgia. A few weeks ago, Sherlock had pulled out the photo books that had made their way back to him after their parents had died many decades ago. The books themselves had been professionally redone, leather-bound, preserved well. Mycroft's eyes had lingered over each picture and let the memories take him back to days he'd stored deep in the pigeon-holes of his mind. Past the years of Zariah and Naomi, there were fewer pictures, but they were there as well. With Sherlock and their parents. Candid snapshots of his appearance during important times with important people. All times he usually hadn't been particularly fond of in the moment, but memories never the less. He had made the most of his life, such that it was, despite the tragedy. Despite the loss of his better half and their greatest creation.

He didn't notice he'd fallen asleep until Sherlock's hand was on his own again, gently shaking him awake. Mycroft cracked his eyes open. "Sorry," he breathed.

"Nothing to apologize for." Sherlock took his hand away, fidgeting a bit in the Holmesian anxious way that neither of them had ever grown out of. "Dinner's ready…if you're feeling like it."

"I don't think so," Mycroft decided, not bothering to explain his decision. Food just didn't appeal to him now.

Sherlock lowered himself into his chair as if he'd forgotten about the aforementioned dinner too. "Well then, I suppose it wasn't going to be terribly good after all. John did most of the work."

Mycroft expelled something close to an amused sigh, his eyes turned towards his brother and a fond smile softening his aged face. "Perhaps…finding a housekeeper would be wise."

"At this point, it might be more trouble than its worth."

The two would talk late into the evening. As brothers with a long, somewhat rocky history, they had reached an understanding, and even a friendship now. The conversation topics didn't even matter anymore, and quite a bit of it happened in the past tense. Memories of days gone by. There were smiles and quiet laughter until Mycroft could not keep his eyes open any longer. He breathed an apology.

Before slipping out of the room, Sherlock leaned over to press a kiss to Mycroft's forehead. "Good night, brother dear."

Just only vaguely aware, Mycroft felt a warm pull of brotherly love. He smiled slightly and let himself fall into that blissful sleep, free from the pain of old age. _Good night…brother mine._

* * *

What should have been hours later, Mycroft felt a warm hand on his again. Must have been Sherlock to wake him up once more, the man couldn't leave him be. He breathed in deeply, eyes still closed. "You should let an old man sleep."

"I thought about it, but things to do, dearest."

The voice wasn't Sherlock's. It was female, young, and _so_ familiar. Mycroft's eyes opened. Standing there on the other side of the bed, framed in the dim light of the lamp, was an auburn haired woman in white, soft pink lips pulled into a little smile and blue eyes practically sparkling with starlight. Mycroft didn't know what to make of this dream. He turned his hand over, fingers grazing over the inside of her wrist. "You're here…I don't understand-"

"You will," Naomi interrupted him. "I'm here to take you home."

"Home?" Mycroft struggled through what she mean, and why she was here. There'd been no dreams with either of them since his hours in Eurus' cell, the time of desperation. Perhaps this was another such time. His impending death, while he'd accepted it, was still something he wasn't looking forward to.

Naomi took his hand and gentled helped him sit up on the bed. "You're coming with me, my darling. You'll understand once we get there."

Mycroft allowed himself to be pulled, moving slowly until she'd helped him off of the bed completely. He glanced back at the place he'd previously occupied.

There, laying as if undisturbed and nothing had happened, was his body. Pieces finally clicked into place. Whether this was real, and his unbelief in the existence of the spiritual had been incorrect, or this was merely just a hallucination of a dying man, he decided he didn't particularly care. It was the end of his life, this is what his subconscious apparently wanted.

Naomi didn't let go of his hand. "Sherlock will find you in the morning," she said quietly. "You know he will never be ready for your death, but he has John and Rosie. He won't be alone."

"I know, I suppose I will never not worry. But you are right, as usual." Mycroft ran a hand over his face, only to pull back to look at it. Decades had washed away. His hand, his body, was neither old nor frail. He could have been twenty-five again, matching his bride who stood at his side. She'd waited for him.

He turned towards her fully, catching her head in his free hand. Their eyes locked together while he tried to understand what was happening. But the years had him yearning for something else as well. He brought their bodies together, wrapped her up in his arms and kissed her. Her lips molded against his as if there weren't decades of life that had separated them. She felt like home in a burst of starlight.

The room of his death faded away, disappearing forever. Mycroft would never see it again. When he opened his eyes and tore them away from his angel's beautiful face, he found them standing in a field of green. Distantly he heard the crash of the ocean against the shore and the smell of fresh flowers hit his nose. Nothing could quite describe what he saw, however, and he had a feeling deep in his chest that his journey here had just begun.

"Daddy!" From the edge of a pasture with horses, Zariah ran at him, throwing her arms around his waist and tucking her head against his chest. She was all of eight years old again with no trace of the disease that had stolen her life. Her dark hair was long and wavy, her weight healthy, her skin a flushed pink.

Mycroft nearly lost it right there. She was exquisite. He scooped her up and held her close to his chest, tucking his face into her hair and feeling her heart beat strong and steady. Death was naught but a distant memory. His chest tightened and his voice was filled with so much emotion, he thought he would burst. "Hello, love."

"I missed you, Daddy. I can't wait to show you everything," she said happily. "It's amazing. I'm glad you're finally here."

Naomi was there too, wrapping her arm around the two of them. Together again. She rested her forehead against his temple. "We are just getting started. Welcome home."

Mycroft didn't realize there were tears in his eyes until Naomi brushed the wetness on his cheek away. It didn't matter. They weren't tears of sadness or loneliness, but rather joy and hope. He closed his eyes and breathed it in.

* * *

Surrounded by trees in an old London churchyard, stood together, three headstones. Aged white, aged grey, the newest black. Buried there, beneath the earth, was a family. Separated by tragedy and decades of life lived alone, now joined in death.

 _Naomi Grace Holmes — 28 August 1969 - 2 December 1995. Beloved Wife and Mother. "The passion of love bursting into flame is more powerful than death, stronger than the grave."_

 _Zariah Hope Celestia Holmes — 10 April 1989 - 9 September 1997. Beloved Daughter. "She was a star fallen to earth, and now she dances with them again."_

 _Mycroft Timothy Holmes — 14 February 1970 - 24 December 2054. Cherished Brother. Once Father, Husband. "Death is just another path, one that we all must take."_


End file.
